A Matter Of Time
by Ink Spotz
Summary: After the fall, in which John believes that Sherlock is dead, he goes crazy with grief. He starts seeing a therapist in order to try to get over his death. The therapist gives him a watch as a symbol. What happens when John finds out that the watch is much more than just a symbol? Will he finally be able to get all the answers he wants surrounding Sherlock's death?
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

"How are we today?"

John stared at his therapist, his eyes vacant of emotions. How did she think he was feeling? He had been feeling the same way for over a year now. It wasn't about to be something that magically changed overnight. Why was he even doing this? It wasn't like she was helping. How would he ever be able to get over the grief of losing his best friend, of losing Sherlock? As a former army doctor, he should have been able to see the tell tale signs of Sherlock's depression; he should have been able to tell that he was about to commit suicide before he did.

But instead, he had failed as a doctor _and _a best friend.

The therapist produced a small frown as she watched John. She bent her head down to write something on the pad on her lap before locking her gaze on him again.

"You're still thinking about the past; about the incident."

Incident. The way she said it made it sound like she was making light of the subject. His best friend was dead now. It wasn't an incident. It was a tragedy.

When he didn't say anything, the therapist jotted down another note, no doubt writing that she had been right with her assumption.

"John, these sessions are to help you get over your grief. In order to do that, you have to cooperate with me. You need to vocalize how you're feeling."

He looked intently at the therapist, his eyes finally clouding over with slight traces of grief.

"I'm feeling the same way I've been feeling ever since his death; empty. I miss my best friend, and no matter how long I sit in your office, it'll never make me get over it."

"But you're a soldier..."

"Yes," said John, cutting her off. "I've seen death, but then, the death couldn't be avoided. Every time I went out onto the battlefield with my fellow comrades, we knew that death could be waiting just in front of us. But this, this death could have been avoided if I had only seen the signs."

"So, you believed that Sherlock's death was a suicide?"

"What kind of question is that?" asked John. "Of course it was."

"Right, sorry."

The therapist jotted down a few more notes before standing up and walking to her desk.

"I think I realize the root of your problem; of why you can't let go of this grief inside you."

He watched her, his eyes locking on her. She pulled open one of her desk drawers and bent down slightly to retrieve something, slipping it into the pocket of her dress.

"What's that?" asked John. "I lost my best friend. Why shouldn't I still be grieving?"

"John," she said in a slow, measured voice as if he were an irrational child that wouldn't listen to reason, "The reason that you are still feeling all this grief inside is because you refuse to let go of the past. You have to try to move on; focus on all the good memories that you have of Sherlock. Instead, you're wallowing in the past and drowning in your grief."

She stood in front of him, her lavender dress outlining her sleek form. She reached one of her hands into the pocket of her dress, clamping her hand around the content as she drew it out.

"I have something for you that I think might help."

She extended her clamped hand to John, finally unclamping it to reveal the content. A wristwatch lay in the palm of her hand.

"A watch?" asked John, looking at the therapist as if she was the one that needed counseling. "How will that help me?"

"This watch is a symbol that you should focus on the present time instead of reflecting on all the time that you have lost. You can't wallow in the past. Time will always move forward whether we want it to or not. All we can do is live in each moment."

"So it's merely symbolic?" asked John, looking at the watch.

"Yes. Wear it and it'll help you remember what I just told you."

He stared at the watch that still lay in the palm of her hand, not making any move to take it.

"Just humor me. At least pretend you're getting something from these sessions."

He looked up at the therapist who had her hazel eyes locked on his. Maybe she was right. At least he could humor her. He reached forward and grabbed the watch, retracting his hand as he stared at the watch face, looking at the digital numbers.

"Thank you," she said, a kind smile spreading across her face.

He merely nodded, placing the watch on his wrist and tightening the strap.

"I assure you that it'll help you to move on from the past."

He just nodded again, highly doubting that, but finding no reason to argue with the therapist.

"I think that that'll be all for today's session, John. I shall see you next week."

He stood up from the chair, faking a small smile for her.

"Thank you. See you then."

He wished that he could stop these sessions, but if he did, he would have no hope of overcoming his grief. At least by visiting the therapist, he was allowing himself to hope that he'd someday be able to get over it. Hope was better than nothing.

As he walked out of her office, and outside, he watched the hustle and bustle of downtown London with a vacant look. He felt disconnected from everything since Sherlock's death. Life seemed to be moving by without him. He merely felt like a bystander now; a bystander who stood on the outskirts of life and watched everything rushing by.

John flagged down a cab and got inside, telling the cabbie the address to his apartment. During the ride, he looked down at the watch the therapist had given him, tapping the face lightly with his finger. The numbers inside kept on ticking away the minutes. All John wanted was to go back; go back to all the good times that he had had with Sherlock on their cases. He didn't realize how lonely life would become without his best friend.

As he tapped the face of the watch, one of his fingers accidentally hit a button on the side of the watch. The watch beeped once, the numbers flashing momentarily. John raised a brow at that, wondering what the watch was doing. It must be malfunctioning already. Figures that a symbolic watch from a therapist would be a cheap thing.

"John, stop tapping. You're distracting me."

John closed his eyes, his pulse pounding in his head. That voice. It couldn't possibly be. He was just imagining it. His grief had finally made him go crazy.

"Car sick?"

Again. The voice. It sounded like it was right beside him; it sounded real. That couldn't possibly be. He allowed himself to crack open one eye and look at the seat beside him.

Seated beside him in the cab was a ghost. Seated beside him in the cab, alive and in the flesh was Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock quirked a brow at John, a small smile spreading across his face.

"We're not even at the crime scene yet, and you're feeling sick."

John's eyes widened, his pulse quickening. He immediately pressed himself against the door of the cab, closing his eyes again.

"I'm dreaming. This is just a dream," he said out loud, terrified, hoping that would make this realistic mirage fade away.

Sherlock chuckled, placing his hand on John's shoulder.

"You're not dreaming, John. What is going on in your head today?"

John opened his eyes again, staring at Sherlock.

"But...but I watched you..."

"Yes?" asked Sherlock, prompting John to continue, wondering why he had trailed off.

"Wait...what day is it?" asked John. If this was a dream, it would be any day that he wanted it to be. He thought up a day in his head, deciding upon May 15th, 2014.

Sherlock nodded toward John's wristwatch.

"Why don't you consult your watch?" he suggested.

John looked down at his wristwatch to see that the date was not May 15th, 2014, but instead April 6th, 2013. He gulped. This wasn't a dream.

"No...this can't be..."

"Is today a bad day or something?" asked Sherlock, starting to chuckle again.

He looked back at Sherlock.

"You're real?"

"The last time I checked I was," he chuckled even more.

John didn't know what came over him, but he dove forward, wrapping Sherlock in a hug. Sherlock, startled by this, gently patted John's back.

"Um...John,...what are you doing?"

He was alive. He was here. He was breathing. He wasn't buried in the ground underneath a granite stone with his name engraved on it. He was here, and alive again. He held him tighter, trying not to shake with relief.

"John..." Sherlock tried to break the embrace, managing to slowly.

As he did, his hand accidentally hit the button on the side of John's watch. As John sat back up, reaching up to dry his tears, Sherlock was no more.

"Wait! Where did you go?"

John looked wildly around the cab, wondering how Sherlock had vanished in thin air.

He immediately looked at his watch, seeing that he was once again, in the present time. Somehow he had managed to travel back into the past, and all he wanted to do was go back. He immediately began to press a variety of buttons.

"DARN IT!" shouted John in frustration when it wouldn't work. He had to figure out how to make the watch work again. He had done it once before.

The cabbie looked up into his rear view mirror at the shout, raising a brow at him.

"Is everything all right back there?" asked the cabbie.

John looked at the now vacant cab seat beside him, looking back down at the watch's face.

"They were..." he replied.

He had managed to travel back into time. He didn't know how, but he had. He was going to do that again. This time, he had a destination in mind; a purpose that he had to accomplish. He would go back to the moment of Sherlock's suicide and save him from killing himself. He knew changing the future could be dangerous, but it was more dangerous for Sherlock to be dead.

Right now, the future was in John's hands and it was time to change things.

* * *

**AN: I realize that this is a quirky, weird story, but if you did like it, please let me know through a review. Those encourage me greatly. I'll continue it if I know people want to read more. :) Thanks for reading it if you have. :) **


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

John stared at the watch on his wrist as he laid on his back on his bed. As soon as he had gotten home, he had allowed himself to stumble inside, kick off his shoes, and lay on his bed. He was too tired to move. The grief that the therapist was making him vocalize was tiring him out. Now he was also perplexed with the watch that he had been given. He stared at the face of the watch, watching as the minutes ticked by him. How did he manage to go into the past? Was it just a brief moment of insanity that he had experienced or did it really happen?

John sat up and tapped the face of the watch with his finger.

"Come on. I'm not insane. Take me back to Sherlock."

Still nothing.

John let out a long groan, allowing himself to flop backward onto the bed.

"I'm _not _insane," said John out loud to himself.

He brought up his watch hand, and looked at the watch.

"You _will _work again. I will make it happen."

But how?

He bit his lip in thought. Before, when it had happened in the cab, he had been playing with the buttons on the side of the watch. Maybe if he did it again, he'd be able to make it happen once more.

Taking a deep breath, he allowed his fingers to start wandering over the buttons as he laid on the bed.

"JOHN! WHERE ARE YOU?!"

That was Sherlock's voice. It had worked.

John sat up, looking around to see that he was no longer in his bed in his own flat, but back at 221B Baker Street in his room. He quickly threw his feet over the side of the bed and opened the bedroom door, walking down the steps and into the living room.

"Sherlock, where are you?"

As he asked that, he entered the main room, seeing Sherlock sitting in his chair, his legs crossed, his eyes closed. He was wandering his mind palace. A smile spread across John's face. This was a sight that he had missed this last year. He walked over to his seat across from Sherlock and sat down, waiting for Sherlock to acknowledge that he was in the room.

After a couple minutes of silence, Sherlock opened one eye to look at John.

"Ah, there you are. Was wondering where you went."

"I was just lying down," said John. "Did you need something?"

"Yes," replied Sherlock as he opened both eyes, springing up from his chair.

Sherlock walked over to the desk by the window, and grabbed up a piece of paper. He brought it back over to John and handed it to him.

"Tell me what you think this says."

John studied the piece of paper, looking at all the symbols that littered the page. He remembered seeing this code before, but even now, he still didn't know what it meant. After a couple of minutes of thought in order to see if he could try to come up with an answer this time, he shrugged.

"I don't know. Looks like a type of odd code to me."

Sherlock frowned, sitting back down in his chair and leaning back.

"I was hoping that it was some sort of code that you used in the army, and that you might be able to decode it."

"Nope. Sorry."

John held out the piece of paper to Sherlock so that he could take it back. Sherlock didn't make any moves to take the paper though. Instead, he just sat in the same position, staring off into space in evident thought.

"There's always a way to crack a code. I may not be able to right now, but I will eventually."

He looked at John, finally leaning to take the paper.

"When things don't appear clear at first, the deeper we dig, the clearer things become."

John nodded. That made absolute sense. He had thought that Sherlock was slightly insane at the time, but now he understood what he meant exactly. That was what he was dealing with right now. He didn't understand this whole time travel thing, but he was determined to dig deep enough to be able to find out. He would make things clear.

"Where did you get that watch?" asked Sherlock, changing subjects completely, nodding toward the watch on John's wrist. "You didn't have that watch on before you left the flat."

"Oh...I picked it up."

Sherlock leaned forward again to take a look at the watch.

"Looks expensive."

"_Please don't touch the buttons," _thought John to himself. _"Please don't."_

But of course, hoping that Sherlock wouldn't be curious and touch the buttons was like hoping that a child in a candy store wouldn't ask for a piece of candy. It was absolutely useless.

Sherlock's fingers traced the buttons before pressing one, no doubt to see how it worked. That was when everything around him faded and he found himself seated on his couch in his flat.

John let out a sigh. Well, at least he had managed to figure it out. Now he just had to find out how to travel back to a specific time. He looked down at the watch, the time once again flashing past him. He missed Sherlock, but he had to take Sherlock's advice in order to save his life. He would have to dig deeper to figure out how to get back to the right time.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

John was pretty sure that everyone thought he was insane.

When he had gone to the local library in search of books on time travel, everyone kept shooting him odd looks. People recognized John from all of the newspaper articles about the cases that he solved with Sherlock. Every person that saw him thought that his grief over Sherlock's death had been taken to a new extreme. They thought that he had finally gone over the edge.

But John knew better.

John didn't care what others thought about him. He knew what had happened to him was real, and he was going to take Sherlock's advice to heart in order to save his best friend's life.

He studied from the moment the library opened to the moment it closed. He'd borrow some of the books, taking them home and pouring over the information for hours. However, no matter how long he poured over the information, he couldn't seem to find anything that would give him the answer that he needed. Maybe he'd just have to experiment, like Sherlock use to do. Maybe, through trial and error, he'd be able to figure out how to get back to the right time.

He decided to go for a walk, back to a source of familiarity for him. He tugged his coat on, tucking his hands into his pocket. He strolled along down the sidewalk for a couple of hours until he reached the front door of 221 B. He rolled up the sleeve of his coat to reveal the watch that was hidden there. He took a deep breath and started to press the buttons.

Suddenly, the strains of violin music reached his ears. A small smile spread across his face. He reached forward to open the door, stepping inside and going up the stairs. When he arrived at the top of the flight of stairs, he stood in the doorway. Sherlock was standing near the window, his eyes closed, playing his violin. He seemed lost in his playing, not noting the fact that he was there. He slowly crept into the flat and took a seat in his chair, sitting still as he listened to Sherlock play.

After a couple of minutes, Sherlock finally came to the conclusion of his song, opening his eyes. He looked a bit shocked to see John sitting there.

"Have you been sitting there for a while now?"

"Only for a couple of minutes. Don't worry."

Sherlock nodded, placing his violin aside and taking a seat.

"What was that?" asked John, knowing that the answer was obvious, but just wanting to make small talk with Sherlock. He missed him so much.

"A new composition I'm working on. I'm bored out of my mind."

John remembered this moment. He had just gotten home from doing some shopping for the flat, on a day where cases had been nonexistent, to find Sherlock playing a piece of music that he had come up with. John remembered listening to it the first time and finding it so hauntingly beautiful. He smiled, nodding as he sat back in his chair.

"What's it for?"

"Pardon?" asked Sherlock.

"Did you write it for any particular purpose?"

He shrugged.

"I guess I wrote it as a reflection of myself."

Now that was something that John had not realized the first time around. Each of those notes that John had found haunting, now made him feel sad inside. Sherlock must have written the song based off of his life as a consulting detective. It was a long and lonely existence apparently.

Subconsciously, he reached down and pressed the buttons on the side of his watch. Sherlock faded away from in front of him, and he found himself sitting back in his flat. How he had gotten there, he wasn't entirely sure. He still didn't understand all of that time travel nonsense. He smiled softly, thinking back on the moment that he had just relived. That was one of the moments that he had liked thinking about ever since Sherlock died. He had thought that Sherlock was an artist, and that he was unrecognized talent. He had been thought a fake, and that is what drove Sherlock to kill himself. No matter how much of a genius he was, he couldn't take denial. Once someone rejected his genius, there was no going back. It wounded him deeply.

John stood up, walking over to his window and peering out at the sidewalk. The sidewalk was vacant for the time being, and John let out a sigh. Sherlock was an under appreciated genius, and he died with everyone thinking he was a fake. The song that Sherlock had composed seemed to resonate an even deeper meaning now. John turned to look at the pile of time travel books, and decided to get a cup of tea before he continued studying. As he walked to the kitchen to get the tea ready, he was humming Sherlock's song, and not even realizing it.

* * *

**AN: Thank you for all of the favorites/follows/and reviews. :) It means a lot to me that you like this story. :)**


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"John, I'm worried about you."

John looked up at the owner of the voice. Mycroft had his legs crossed, a tea cup almost to his lips. He raised a brow at John, obviously able to tell that his thoughts were elsewhere.

"John, you need to stop dwelling on the past," said Mycroft. "It's not good for you."

John allowed his gaze to wander away from Mycroft, looking at the table beside his chair, seeing an array of envelopes lying there. He looked at all the different types of handwriting on the envelopes, at all of the different addresses that were there.

"Don't tell me what is and isn't good for me, Mycroft. I'm a grown man. I can take care of myself."

"Yes, but you're a grown man who just underwent a ton of grief," said Mycroft, sipping his tea.

"I'm surprised you're so calm, Mycroft. I mean, you just lost your brother," said John, changing the subject, his eyes resting on Mycroft once more. "That can't be easy to cope with. Why aren't you grieving?"

"Grieving isn't in my best advantage. It's not like it'll change anything."

Mycroft turned and placed the tea cup down on the table beside him.

Unfortunately, Mycroft did have a point there. No matter how much you grieved, it would never change anything. It was already done. John looked down at the watch at his wrist. Luckily, he had the opportunity to stop his grieving.

The reason that he had come to see Mycroft today was because he was debating on whether or not to tell him about the watch that he had gotten. Did he dare tell Mycroft that there was a way to see his brother again? Would he believe him if he did? John was hesitant on telling Mycroft though, seeing how he was already acting about him being insane with grief.

Maybe it was better to just let Mycroft forge ahead with his future. Besides, if John's plan worked, his future would involve his brother.

"So, is there any particular reason why you wanted to see me today?" asked Mycroft, breaking the silence that hung in the air.

"I just wanted to see if you were still grieving about Sherlock like I was," said John, "But obviously you're over it."

"Don't dismiss it as if I don't care," said Mycroft.

"You don't care though. You're Mister Caring-Is-A-Disadvantage. You don't allow yourself to grieve because you're too worried about appearing weak!"

"As I clearly stated before, grieving does nothing. It doesn't change anything. Now, John, calm down."

Mycroft's tone had risen slightly during his response, and John knew that he'd better calm down and back off now.

"Sorry," apologized John, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. "I just miss him. It's harder for me to get over his loss."

Mycroft looked at John, finally nodding.

"It's alright, John. I understand, but life moves on. Someday, you'll be healed."

"_Yes," _thought John. _"Someday, we'll all be healed again because Sherlock will be back."_

* * *

After John had left Mycroft's office, he wandered down the hall. His footsteps echoed in his ears, and he allowed himself to frown slightly. A year ago, he'd have Sherlock's joyful banter audible in his ear; now it was nothing, except the memories.

John looked down at the watch. It was risky to do it here. Someone could catch him. He was surprised in all honesty that Sherlock had never commented about his disappearances, but then figured that maybe time travel worked in weirder ways than even he could imagine. Maybe no one would notice if he disappeared for a moment to catch a glimpse of Sherlock.

He looked around quickly to make sure that no one was coming, before he allowed himself to place his fingers over the buttons, pressing them gently.

"Mycroft!"

John brought his head up. He wasn't in Mycroft's office anymore. He didn't know where he was exactly. He looked around and saw that he was in the middle of a park. How had he gotten there?

As he was looking around him in awe, he heard the name being called again.

"Mycroft!"

John looked back up, automatically dropping his jaw in shock. Standing a few feet away from him, calling out Mycroft's name, was a young boy, probably no older than ten, with a mop of curly black hair on the top of his head.

"Mycroft!"

This time, the name was accompanied by a twinge of panic. John could see the small glimmers of fear in the young boy's eyes. This couldn't possibly be who he was thinking it was, but if he tried to find out, he might disrupt the fabric of time. Well, it was a risk that he'd just have to take.

"Excuse me," said John as he approached the boy.

The boy turned to face him, his eyes growing wider. John gave him a small smile, kneeling in front of him.

"Who are you?" asked the boy.

"My name is..." He trailed off for a second, debating whether or not to give his real name. He decided not to chance it. "My name is Martin. Are you lost?"

The small boy nodded.

"I can't find my older brother. We were going to get some ice cream from the ice cream stand, but we got separated. I don't know where he is."

"Well, I'll help you find him. What's your name?"

"Sherlock," said the boy, cementing John's thought.

"_But you're so little_," he thought, trying not to drop his jaw in shock again.

"Alright Sherlock, where was the last place you remember seeing your brother?"

"By the fountain."

"Well, lets check there first."

Sherlock nodding, causing his curls to bounce slightly. John started to walk toward the fountain; Sherlock walking beside him.

"Are you lost too, Martin?"

"Hmm?" said John, completely thrown off guard by Sherlock's question.

"Are you lost too?" he asked, repeating his question.

"No. Why do you say that?"

"Well, you just seem," he shrugged, trying to figure out the right word. "Sad. Not like a mourning sad, just like a lost in life sad. If that makes any sense..."

Even at ten, Sherlock was inquisitive. John smiled a bit at that.

"No, I'll be fine. I miss someone, but I shall be reunited with them shortly, just like you'll be reunited with your brother."

Sherlock smiled slightly at that, nodding his head.

"Right. Okay."

Silence lingered between them once they reached the fountain. John looked around to see if he could see a younger Mycroft anywhere, but couldn't. Maybe Sherlock could.

"Do you see him?"

Sherlock looked around, his blue eyes sweeping the area before them. He soon shook his curly head, "no".

"I still don't see him. Where could he be?"

"He's probably looking for you. How about we have a seat for a minute and see if he comes to the fountain too?"

Sherlock nodded, sitting on the edge of the fountain. John sat down beside him, still not use the age difference between them.

"What were you two doing in the park today?" asked John.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders.

"We were just going to spend the day together."

He noticed that Sherlock was sagging a bit. He frowned slightly, wondering what was wrong.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah, it's just...do you think that Mycroft will be mad at me?"

"Mad at you?" asked John.

Sherlock nodded.

"Do you think that he'll be mad at me for getting lost?"

"No, Sherlock, I really don't think so."

"Why not?"

"Because it was an accident."

He nodded, looking at you.

"Thank you, Martin. I don't know who you are, but you're very kind."

He smiled.

"You're welcome, Sherlock. I'm just glad I can..."

"SHERLOCK!"

Sherlock and John both swiveled their heads to see a seventeen year old running toward them, his red hair sticking up a bit, his face covered by worry.

"Mycroft!"

Sherlock jumped up off his seat and ran toward Mycroft, the two of them meeting in the middle to hug. John watched them hug, his heart swelling. It was adorable to see that the two of them had such a brotherly bond even though they pretended that they couldn't stand each other.

As the two of them hugged, John got up and snuck off, not wanting to disturb time anymore than he already had. He stood behind a tree a little ways away, looking at Sherlock and Mycroft one last time. He saw that Sherlock had turned around to point toward the fountain, no doubt to introduce him to Mycroft, but finding that he had disappeared.

"Goodbye, Sherlock," he said as he watched little Sherlock look around to see if John was somewhere nearby. "I will see you again soon."

John pressed the buttons on his watch, and the scene faded to black.

* * *

**AN: Chapter as suggested through review by LifeOnMarsGirl. ;) Hope you all enjoyed it. :) **


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

John was frustrated. The watch still kept taking him back in time, but always to the wrong time. One time he had ended up at Sherlock's fifteenth birthday party. He stood among the members of his family, none of them seeming to pay any attention to him as Sherlock tore open his presents, wrapping paper flying everywhere to reveal the Chemistry set. Another time he had ended up at the end of their Baskerville case. They were both on the moor, the fog rolling in, when Sherlock decided to reveal his startling revelation. He admired his deduction as much the second time. Sherlock was such a fascinating man, who, even when he couldn't believe what his eyes were showing him, could figure out a way to deduce the right answer.

None of the books helped John to figure out how to go back to a certain period in time. He just wanted to save Sherlock from falling to his death. Was that to much of him to ask?

Two weeks after he had received the watch, he felt like throwing it out the window. What was the use of traveling in time and seeing Sherlock, but not being able to ultimately save him? It was just making matters worse for him. It was making his depression escalate to new heights. It was like it was some kind of cruel joke, and he hated being the punch line.

He looked down at his watch as he stood in front of St. Bart's, in the same exact spot he had stood over a year ago when Sherlock had fallen to his death right before his eyes. As he stood there, those memories washed over him. He couldn't help, but think of that memory every time he walked past St. Bart's, which is why he tended to stay away from that place as much as he could. But today, today he couldn't take it anymore.

"Why are you doing this to me?!" shouted John, starling some of the people around him, who now were sure that he lost his marbles. "All I wanted to do was save my best friend! Was that too much to ask?"

He decided to come here before he released his anger and frustration. For some reason, it didn't seem right to yell at the walls in his flat. It felt better to scream at the scene of the suicide; at the scene of his best friend's death. It felt as if it released some sort of pain that he had harbored deep down inside him for a long time. It felt as if, for once, he finally had someone to blame besides himself.

Taking a deep breath in an attempt to steady his nerves, he looked down at the watch that was around his wrist; his reflection warped within its face.

"Alright, one more time," said John out loud to himself. "And then that's it. No more attempts after this. It's just driving me even crazier."

He placed his fingers over the buttons and gently proceeded to push down on them.

He looked about him after he had pressed the buttons. He was still in the same spot. Did that mean?...

No, he didn't dare to hope. He would just be let down again.

Subconsciously, he allowed his eyes to wander up to the roof of St. Bart's, as if to prove himself wrong faster. His heart lept into his throat as he stared at the roof, for standing there, his sleek figure outlined by the baby blue of the sky, was Sherlock.

He had finally landed in the right time. Now it was time for him to save his best friend.

He knew what was coming next. He knew that Sherlock would attempt to call him as his "note" in order to ensure that he stood in the spot that he needed to stand in. He wasn't going to let that happen this time. As he ran toward St. Bart's, he could feel his mobile ringing in his pocket, but he immediately dismissed. He would make it to his destination in time. He would save Sherlock.

His heart thudded heavily in his chest as he raced forward. As he rounded a building to see the front of St. Bart's clearly, he faltered, gaping at what lay before him. Directly underneath where Sherlock was about to fall was a blown up air mat. He closed his eyes. He had to be seeing it wrong. He had to be seeing things.

He realized that from Sherlock's vantage point on the roof, that he could clearly see where he was standing so it was no use to attempt to hide. So instead, he leaned against the building he had just rounded, and waited to see how everything played out.

Sure enough, he watched Sherlock fall from the roof, soon coming to rest in the safety of the mat. A whirlwind of emotions rushed through John at that moment as he stood there, clenching his hands into fists at his side. On one hand, he was relieved that Sherlock wasn't dead, and that he had never been dead to begin with. On the other hand, he was livid that Sherlock had allowed him to believe that he was dead; allowed him to wallow in his grief and to spiral so far into depression. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly to try to calm down.

Sherlock realized that he didn't have to play dead for John anymore, so he walked over to him. As Sherlock approached, John got even madder. So, all of those people that had gathered around Sherlock's body when it had fallen, all of those people that had tried to comfort him, were faking. It had been staged, all of it had been staged, for him. Sherlock wanted to deceive him so much, but why? Why couldn't he have trusted him with this secret?

"You weren't suppose to see this," said Sherlock, nodding toward the still inflated air mat behind him.

John took another deep breath, quickly releasing it in the form of an angry hiss.

"It was intended to save your life. You're still in danger."

"What are you talking about, Sherlock?" asked John.

Sherlock's gaze fell behind John, sweeping the windows in the buildings behind him. An alarmed look passed over his face. He gripped John by the shoulder and yanked him behind a nearby building. He forced John to press his back against it as they crouched there.

"Stay there until I call for Mycroft," commanded Sherlock. "It's the only way I can ensure your safety. The hit man could be near by."

"Sherlock..."

"John, you must trust me," said Sherlock.

Trust him. John had to bit his lip to keep from releasing the scoff that wanted to spew from his mouth. He _had _trusted Sherlock, and he had betrayed his trust by pretending that he had been dead this whole time. How could he ever trust him again?

"You must," insisted Sherlock, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a notepad. He quickly made a pen appear out of his pocket as well, and scribbled something down. He pressed it into John's palm, standing to his feet. "I will be back in a moment. I'm going to call Mycroft."

Sherlock walked off on him, digging out his mobile and placing it to his ear. John watched Sherlock's back as he walked off. He was still angry beyond belief. He had spent all of that time in therapy; all of that time grieving the death of his best friend; all that time trying to get back to this time to save him, only to find out that Sherlock had never been dead to begin with.

As he clenched his hands into a fist again, he heard the paper that Sherlock had given him crinkle in his hand. He wondered what Sherlock had written, and decided to uncrumple it to see what he was written. As angry as he was at Sherlock, part of him still marveled at the fact that he had actually faked his death so brilliantly.

He looked at Sherlock's handwriting on the paper, scanning it with his eyes as he read it. When he got to the last word written on the paper, he panicked. Apparently he hadn't had been as careful in his travels in time as he had thought. He thought he had been; he had even given himself the fake name, Martin, in an attempt to keep Sherlock from discovering the truth, but he should have known better. Sherlock had a way of finding out the truth. John looked down at the piece of paper one final time as he re-read the five words written there; the five words that read:

_We need to talk, Martin._


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

He stared down at his tea for a minute; letting the steam drift up into his face. It just added to the flushed nature of his cheeks from the anger inside him. He still couldn't wrap his mind around the fact that Sherlock had never been dead to begin with. How could he deceive him in that way?

"Are we just going to continue to silently socialize with our beverages, or are you going to say something?" asked Sherlock finally.

John could tell that Sherlock's glacier blue eyes were staring at him, but he was too angry to look up. At this point, yes, he'd like to continue the silence. If the silence continued, it meant that he would be less likely to do something that he'd regret later.

"Well, this meeting was certainly productive," remarked Sherlock sarcastically as he took a sip of the coffee that was in front of him. "I suppose you don't want me to tell you about how I know about our past meeting."

John let out a heavy sigh as he looked up at Sherlock. Sherlock looked at John and saw the anger that flashed, like sparks, in his eyes; sparks that were threatening to ignite at one wrong word.

"You do then," said Sherlock, not bothering to ask again.

He placed his coffee cup to his lips and took another tentative sip. John slammed a fisted hand down onto the cafe table they were seated at.

"What I want to know," said John dropping his voice to a dangerously low octave, "Is how you are alive..."

Sherlock nodded, setting his cup back down.

"Funny that you should ask that..."

"Funny?" snorted John; the angry spark inside him ignited. "_Funny_?! I buried you! I grieved for you! I thought you were dead!" He rose from his seat; the anger taking full control at this point. "I had to go to a bloody therapist for grief consoling! Do you think that was easy for me? Do you even realize what you did to my life?"

Sherlock simply held up a hand, motioning for John to sit back down in the booth.

"You're going to create quite a scene, John. One in which the conclusion will be both of us being kicked out of here," said Sherlock in an even measured voice. "Now sit down please, and allow me a chance to explain."

"Right, right, because I suppose you deserve that after such a clever act of deception," retorted John as he slowly, but surely, sank back into his seat. He crossed his arms across his chest, leaning back in the booth. "So, start explaining. I know I'd _love _to hear the excuse that you have managed to concoct this time."

"I realize that you are quite mad at me, and you have every right to be. However, I faked my death for your own good. If I hadn't played dead when I did, you would have died. Your life was in danger due to Moriarty, along with the lives of Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and Molly."

Sherlock paused, running fingers anxiously through his curls; his coffee long forgotten.

"So, then what? When were you planning on telling me you were alive? Were you ever?"

"That's not fair, John," said Sherlock. "I haven't even gotten a chance to really play dead yet. I just fell off St. Bart's. I shouldn't be here having coffee with you now as it is. If Mycroft finds out that my 'small errand' is this, I'll never hear the end of it."

John huffed, going quiet again.

"May I continue with my narrative?" asked Sherlock.

John nodded his head.

"You couldn't negotiate something out with James Moriarty?"

"No, I couldn't. I was trying to get him to back off; to tell him that I had once again outsmarted him when he dug out a gun, and..."

"And what?"

"He shot himself."

John's eyes widened with disbelief.

"He _shot _himself?"

Sherlock nodded his head; tugging at his hair slightly, making it stick up as he let it go.

"I knew that my only option then was to fall off the building. My falling off to protect your life was a two way plan. During the time of my death, I was suppose to be taking apart Moriarty's web, which is why I couldn't let you know."

"Sherlock, in case you forgot, I was a soldier. I could have _helped_ you out!" stated John, irritated. "Apparently, I could still help you out now since you haven't even played dead yet!"

"No, John. It's not safe," insisted Sherlock.

"I'm an adult, Sherlock. I think I can determine for myself what is and isn't safe."

"I think that it's time that you answer a question or two of mine now," interjected Sherlock, trying to change the subject. "It's only fair after all."

"Fine," said John growing irritated again. "Ask away."

"How did you insert yourself into my childhood memories?" asked Sherlock. "Was it hypnosis or something?"

John snorted, rolling his eyes.

"Yes, I hypnotized you to make you remember me in the park on the day that you got lost because you tell me _everything _about your life, and I felt sympathetic toward you in that moment," said John sarcastically.

"I know you were there. You look the same as you did then. How did you do it?"

John rolled up the sleeve of his coat to undo the wristwatch; passing it over to Sherlock. Sherlock raised a brow as the wristwatch rested in the palm of his hand; turning it every which way in order to examine it better.

"You are joking I hope," said Sherlock with a slight chuckle as he held the watch up for a closer bit of examination. "What does a wristwatch have to do with answering my question?"

"That watch allows me to travel through time, though I don't ever know where it'll take me."

"You're serious?" asked Sherlock once more.

"I'm quite serious, Sherlock. That wristwatch is what took me back through your childhood past. I was trying to use it so I could save you from falling from the building, but obviously, I wasted my time on nothing."

"John, if what you are telling me is to be believed, it's very dangerous what you have done. You have altered the very fabric of time. This could have serious consequences."

"Listen to you! 'Serious consequences'? You didn't even believe me half a second ago."

"I'm still hesitant on believing you." Sherlock handed the wristwatch back to John. "However, you've never lied to me in the past, so I must believe you even if what you say is quite impossible."

"I can show you proof if you wish," offered John, slightly irritated.

Sherlock shook his head.

"No, I don't need proof. Frankly, I don't want to tamper with time. You should go back to the time you've come from."

"I'm from the future two years from now," said John. "A future in which you are still playing dead."

"John, no telling me about the future. You'll ruin it."

"Listen to yourself, Sherlock!" John shook his head, letting out a huff of irritation. "I just want you back! I want my best friend back! Is that so wrong?"

"I understand, John, but you really should go home now."

"Fine, I'll make you a deal. I'll go back to the time I came from if you promise to go reveal that you're alive now."

"John, I can't...it compromises _everything!_..."

"Very well, then I'm staying." He crossed his arms stubbornly. "I'm going with you."

"You can't. Mycroft will never let you..."

John was getting fed up with Sherlock's excuses. He rose angrily from the booth again.

"Stop with the excuses, Sherlock! I don't have time to put up with this! If you don't want me as a best friend anymore, you just have to say so!"

John stormed out of the booth and threw open the cafe door. He knew that Sherlock would follow him, and sure enough, mere moments later, Sherlock was by his side once more.

"John, stop!"

Sherlock placed his hand firmly on John's shoulder to keep him from moving away, or attempting to.

"Look, I want you as a best friend. I don't want to lose you, but you aren't being fair."

"I think I'm being quite fair. It's much fairer than you jumping off a building and making me believe you were dead."

Sherlock let out a long sigh, running a hand slowly down his face.

"I can't reveal myself to you in this time yet. I have work to do."

"Then I'm coming with you," stated John, "whether you like it or not." He saw that Sherlock opened his mouth to attempt to protest again, but John held up a finger to tell him not to. "No, I don't want to hear anymore excuses. I'm going no matter if I 'disrupt the very fabric of time and all human existence' or not."

"Aren't we being a bit dramatic, John?" asked Sherlock softly, cracking a weak smile.

John cracked a weak smile back then, shaking his head.

"You're lucky I'm so forgiving toward you."

"We're best friends for a reason, John," remarked Sherlock draping his arm over John's shoulder. "Now come on. We need to go see Mycroft, and on the way, we can try to come up with some sort of excuse as to why you're tagging along."


End file.
